The Spider and the Fly
by Digital Tempest
Summary: The conversation started with a seething accusation spit from his lips. RoLo.
1. 45ºN 180ºW

**Disclaimer: **If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended. That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream. Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend _(Shakespeare)._ I don't own any characters recognizable from _X-Men_. Marvel, et al, owns all characters. No copyright infringement intended.

**Foreword:** I did a challenge on livejournal called 1sentence. The challenge consisted of 50 word prompts; for each word, I was supposed to write one (yes, you read it—_one_!) sentence. The first time I did it I chose Wolverine and Storm as my poison of choice, and once it was over, some sentences begged to be explored, specifically two (one of which I plan to explore in this short story). I've posted the sentence as a "prologue" sort of to the story. The prompt was the word "kiss." Some of the lesser prompts made it into the story (a revised version of the sentence, anyway). And yes, I realize that's one long ass sentence. Trust me when I say MS Word never let me forget. This doesn't really follow any specific continuity, so you picture it wherever you think best. One of my psych30 prompts (approach-avoidance conflict) also inspired this.

**Dedication:** This is for everyone who read "Snapshots" and encouraged me to expand on some of the sentences. I'm glad you all enjoyed the sentences, even though they weren't really much more than teasers. Hopefully, this will make up for all that teasing, though. ;)

**The Spider and the Fly**  
by Tempest

**Intermezzo: The Kiss**  
_She pulls him to her for a kiss; not the sweet, subdued kiss that was worthy of her ilk of woman, but hard kisses that were rough enough to draw blood from her already bruised lips; he pulls back from her momentarily, running a tongue over her throbbing bottom lip; "Logan never kisses me like this," she says, as he pulls her into another kiss; this one harder than the first; betrayal _never _hurt so good._

**Movement I: 45ºN. 180ºW.**

"_Yer fuckin' around, ain't ya?"_

That was how the conversation started with a seething accusation spit from his lips.

It hadn't come out quite right, though, but it wasn't as bad as it could've been. He practiced what he was going to say to her moments before while pacing the garage. He'd told himself that he would handle this situation calmly and rationally. She'd have a reasonable explanation for her recent behavior, she'd probably yell at him for thinking she'd do such a thing, and they'd make up, as only they knew how.

With each step he took toward the greenhouse, he thought about how many balmy nights they'd spent just _being together_ there. He'd listen patiently while she went on and on about low-growing juniper, kangaroo paws, silver-gray ivy, and Japanese maple. He'd bury his nose in her hair, running his fingertips across her skin, as she explained how the contrasting color of her plants—the stark blues, the muted greens, the burnished russets, and the brilliant chartreuses—created a textured harmony.

Thinking about the shared intimacy of those moments made his anger boiled, churning hotly in his veins like a volatile chemical. He hid those moments deep inside, far from where they could be touched. He knew all to well the pain behind forgotten memories, but no matter what may or may not happen to him in the future, nothing would ever take away his love for her.

When he entered the greenhouse, Ororo was sitting on the ground, legs slightly gaped, back hunched as she worked at a steady pace, her feet buried deep in the dirt. She said she loved the cool feel of the earth between her toes. She'd folded the bottom of the mottled blue-gray shirt she wore under, knotting it in the back to keep it in place, revealing tight stomach muscles. The shirt was a souvenir from a spontaneous trip to Mexico she'd taken with Yukio sometime back.

If she turned around, he would see the words "_¿Dónde están mis pantalones?_" while the letters spelling out Mexico splayed across a fading sunrise. She thought it was funny; he thought it was campy. The shirt was an inside joke between Yukio and Ororo—something about one too many vodka chasers and the actual disappearance of the pants she'd happened to be wearing. He hadn't asked for the fine details.

Though he made little sound when he moved, she turned her face toward his direction as if sensing he was near. She said that she did; she said something about it being a feeling she got in her stomach when he was in proximity. She turned back to her task without acknowledging him, but he'd seen the brief look of dread dim her face before she turned. And that's when he asked her if she was cheating on him.

Ororo stood from her place on the ground casually, using one hand to dust the dirt from her denim shorts when she finally reached her full height. His eyes traveled up wraparound legs (called that 'cause they were the kinda legs made to wrap around a man's hips all night long) that were much too long for the barely-there jean shorts she wore. Not that he was complaining or anything because it would be a lot of fun to see how fast she could get out of them _after_ they settled this business.

She took a few steps to the small wooden table a few feet away, placing her pruning shears on the table. Pulling her hands from the thick, gardening gloves, she flexed her fingers. She slapped both gloves down on the table, and he couldn't help looking at them. You had your pruning shears, a scattered assortment of seeds, and those high-tech, fancy-ass, non-leather gardening gloves. She wouldn't use anything else. However, he wasn't there to gawk at her _stupid_ gloves. He was there for some answers, answers she wasn't giving him.

She never looked at him—didn't speak a _blessed_ word—as she did everything with a slow deliberation, fanning the flames of his anger. If she was trying to piss him off, she was succeeding. She finally turned to look at him, placing one hand against the table. She pursed her lips, raising one eyebrow, as if waiting patiently for the inevitable fallout. He couldn't read much of anything in her clear, blue eyes. And goddamnit, why didn't she just say _something_ already?

The silence between them stretched for miles like wide-open, never-ending highways leading to unknown destinations. All she had to do was say "no" and they could move forward with their life instead of backwards. He knew he'd have to do some ego petting and maybe endure a chick flick or two before she'd decide he was in her good graces again. But what was a little groveling compared to the warm feeling of relief—to knowing he was _wrong_? He'd rather watch _Ghost_ a million times than have her tell him that she was in fact cheating.

They'd suffered the premature deaths of those they loved and the bitter sting of defeat, stolen kisses and endless what ifs, broken hearts and fragmented memories of past loves. For every step forward they'd taken in their relationship, they'd taken two back. They had only gotten to this point through persistence and patience. They hadn't gotten to this point to throw it all away for _nothing_. But he didn't know if their relationship _could_ endure this.

He didn't know how he would react if she told him that she was sleeping with someone else. He hadn't really prepared himself for that answer because he'd been sure she would deny the accusation until the words were lost in her throat. He knew that thought contradicted his gut feeling, but a man was entitled to lie to himself sometime especially when it came to his woman.

He tried to detect any subtle changes in her smell especially the one that he likened to guilt, but it wasn't there. Maybe he was wrong, or maybe she didn't feel guilty about anything she'd done. "Is this a conversation we really need to have _right now_?" she asked, neither confirming nor denying whether she was sleeping with someone else.

_Well, damn._

Where was that moral anger he expected from her—that he _wanted_ from her? She was just so calm, so cool, with a hint of annoyance. Oh no, she wasn't the one who got to be aggravated. She had _no_ right, but her every action indicated that she did feel entitled to be annoyed—from the way she swatted her hair out of her eyes to the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other in an agitated tempo.

"Hell yeah, it is," he managed without raising his voice… much.

"And why is that?" she asked, standing up straight again and crossing her arms antipathetically. Her voice betrayed nothing but cool indifference, though her eyes sang a different tune. "It seems that you have already made up your mind about my fidelity."

"Yer not understandin' me."

"No, I understand quite well when someone calls me a _whore_," a verbal riot of words causing the tone of her voice to swell an octave.

"I ain't say that."

"No, but you implied it when you asked if I was _fucking around_," she said angrily, a loud _CRACK!_ adding the exclamation point to her reproachful statement. Her eyes flashed on and off like hazard lights. It was her warning to him; one she should know would never work with him. That only told him that he'd hit a raw nerve.

It was unbelievable how quickly she turned it all around on him, how quickly she made him the bad guy in this situation. When she really didn't want to talk about something, she'd twist his words until sometimes he wasn't sure what he'd said himself. "Yer not gonna do this ta me. We're too old ta play games," he said firmly. She'd do this all day if he let her.

She'd broach the subject carefully, as if she really did want a resolution, and just when he'd believed an answer was forthcoming, she'd back away from it, closing herself in a protective mental safeguard. She'd answer questions with a question or give him ambiguous answers that sounded nice but didn't truly have anything to do with anything once he let it settle in his mind. She'd snap at him, if he kept pushing, or suddenly find something more important to do.

"I care about ya, 'Ro. Ya know that. Don't play stupid, but if ya care about me at all…" If she cared about him at all, she'd be honest with him.

Her face shifted from hard lines and accusing angles to understanding softness. Her mouth curved downward, begging him to wrap his lips around hers, as a glimmer of concern started to surface. She'd never been able to keep up the "hard" façade long with him, especially not when it came to how he felt about her. All he wanted to do was take her into his arms. For a moment, he forgot this was the same woman whose face hardened when he walked into the room, the same woman who lowered her lids and glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes instead of looking him in his face.

"What makes you think I am cheating on you?" she asked quietly, crossing her arms across herself. Did she really want to know? Or would she stop him before he could really make her understand? Would she want to hear the watered down version of how he'd come to his conclusion? Or would she want him to give it to her raw and real—her feelings be damned?

Maybe she wanted to hear that there was something different about the way she treated him. The warmth and love that often coiled around him when he was around her was replaced by a forced, cold, impersonal feeling—a cruel taste of winter. Her fingers no longer lingered when they touched. Her tone was just a little sharper, a little more disapproving, when he'd done something she didn't approve of, and he didn't have to do much to set her off these days. She avoided him with sorry excuses of need to do "this" or "that." And there was always that small voice in his head that said, "_She don't want ya no more_," after she spurned his advances.

Or maybe she wanted to hear how their lovemaking—something that he'd always considered beautiful and sacred between them—had turned into something dirty and urgent. It was nothing more the carnal act of flesh against flesh, tongues colliding, fingers groping almost painfully, and mental pleas of "gimmie, gimmie, gimmie it _all_." Down on their knees, his hand wrapped in her hair while she pleaded for more, they'd fuck like two animals in heat. It was an act so dirty, so primal, that it appealed, wholly, to the animal in him—who wanted to take her right there in the greenhouse in front of God and everyone else just at the thought of it.

Despite it all, he believed she still cared about him and maybe she still loved him. "There's somethin' pullin' ya away from me and pushin' me away from ya. Not somethin' but _somebody_," he said, knowing those really weren't the words he was looking for.

"There's a difference?" she asked.

"There is fer me."

If there were just a wedge between them it would've snuck up on them quietly and easy, slowly tearing them apart, leaving them in a state of "what happened?" When someone else was involved, it was a forceful intrusion that couldn't be missed, turning everything on its ear from the moment this person entered their lives. One day, you were thinking about marriage and kids; the next, you were praying she wouldn't call out the other man's name during sex.

"Maybe we have just grown apart," she said, sending him a heartrending smile. It was far from a confession, but she admitted that there was a noticeable lull in their relationship. Sometimes, she liked to deny that anything was wrong when things started falling apart at the seams, but she didn't deny this. "We have just been so stressed lately. I'm sure—"

"Yer sure what? That once we get once we get all the crazies off the street this'll all go away?" he snorted. "Ya know that ain't ever gonna change, darlin'. We signed up fer the long haul, an' whatever life we plan ta have will always be tried by everythin' this world has ta throw at us. We either try let that turn us inta someone who avoids all relationships or we do the best we can. An' I thought we were doin' okay until…"

She took a small step backward, as if the force of his words had physically pushed her. He stepped closer to her, closing the gap between them a little, and she shook her head at him. "Stop," she said holding her hand in the air. He paused not sure if she wanted him to stop talking, stop walking toward her, or both. He wasn't trying to scare her away, but he could see things were progressing to just that end.

"No, I won't stop. Yer gonna listen ta what I gotta say," he said firmly, watching as defiance hardened her features once again.

"I will not," she said, turning sharply on her heels. She didn't outright run. Nah, she was too dignified for that. Instead she walked not-too-slow-not-too-fast, hiding her nervousness at the situation behind a steel spine. She even had the nerve to look back at him over her shoulder, goading him through her actions. _Stop me if you dare_, her chilly look said.

She was crazy if she thought she could just ride out of there on her high horse, if she thought she could just end the conversation because she didn't want to hear it. Well, she was going to hear it whether she wanted to or not. He'd agonized night and day over her, spent countless nights wanting nothing more than to rip somebody's fucking face off. He worried that there was something wrong with him, something she saw in him that repelled her. No more, though. He was going to tell her exactly what it was like.

And he was after her, overtaking her stride with little effort. Grabbing her arms, he stopped her in her tracks. And he could see the outrage in her eyes, but he was beyond caring. "Logan, what are you doing?" Her voice was low and furious, lingual nettles pricking his skin.

"Why are ya so afraid of hearin' what I gotta say?" he asked, ignoring her demand.

"I _don't_ want to hear this." Pleading cushioned her words.

Didn't she understand that he wasn't saying these things to hurt her or to drive her away? He was confused and hurting, and he just needed her to tell him he was wrong. He needed to know that he wasn't impeding. He needed to hear that she still loved him.

"Well, yer gonna. Why won't ya listen ta me?"

"You do not understand, Logan." Shifting gears, her voice was no longer frozen fury. She was trying to reason with him, to cajole him. She'd speak to him as if he were a child, sweet and artful, inveigling him until he gave in. He hated it when she did that.

"No, it's _you_ who don't understand, 'Ro. Ya don't know what it's like ta open yer eyes everyday an' wonder if this is gonna be the day the person ya loves tells ya it's over."

"Logan, I—"

"An' ya don't know what it's like ta loathe someone so much that ya feel like ya could hurt 'em. Most days, I can barely stand ta look at ya."

"Stop." He heard her pull a sharp breath between her teeth.

"But I know I can't hurt ya 'cause I love ya too much." He swallowed hard as he relived the emotions he felt every day through his own account. And he knew they couldn't continue this tangled dance, but he found it difficult to decide what he needed to do when even his heart couldn't decide what was right.

"Please, _stop it_!" she said quietly, pulling her arms away from him gently. She cupped his face between her hands. His first impulse was to turn his head slightly and kiss the inside of her hand. "I know I have been… preoccupied. I _am _sorry. I never meant to hurt you." Her face was only a baby's breath away from his, her words whisking across his lips enticingly, a soft tongue following in its wake. His resolve was spiraling down the drain right before his eyes. _Put a fork in me. I'm done_, he said to himself.

Sweetly she kissed him as if nothing had transpired, as if he'd never accused her of cheating, as if their relationship had never nosedived at all. It wasn't the burning, lusty, unfeeling kisses he'd become accustomed as of late. No, it was the kind of kiss that had once sealed their silent vows to each other. And just like second nature his hands reconnoitered delicious, cultured curves. And God, why couldn't things stay like this?

She still hadn't admitted to her deception, and it was becoming more of a "non-matter" as she guided his hands to the clasp of her shorts, a present waiting to be unwrapped. Her need filled the greenhouse like sweet ambrosia. He was helpless to the dangerous web she weaved. "Somebody'll see," he said, conveniently overlooking the fact that not too long ago he'd wanted to take her and _damn_ who saw them.

Ororo gave him an impish grin as she grabbed his shirt, pulling him deeper into the private labyrinths of the greenhouse, the foliage closing around them like a protective shield. "'Step into my parlor,' said the spider to the fly."

"_Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly. "Tis the prettiest little parlor that you ever may spy. The way into my parlor is up a winding stair. And I have many curious things to show you there."_

"_Oh no, no," said the little fly. To ask me is in vain. For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."_

He could hear the tale of the spider and the fly unfolding softly in his head. And she was clouding his mind not unlike the spider did the fly. Was he to share a similar fate? As she lured him into her folds, he decided he didn't care.

———

**Author's Notes:** I've been in the mood for a lot of pathos lately, and that's showing in my writing. I actually wrote this to be a one-shot. Too bad I couldn't leave the story like this. After re-reading it, I realize I still have more left to write. The story is continuously unfolding in my mind. It won't be long, though; maybe four or five parts at the most. Just pray I can take a break away from watching _LOST_ (catching up on the eps I missed from season one) to not neglect it. I also have three challenge ficlets to finish for the "rare couples" challenge by the 18th, so I'll be slightly delayed.


	2. Cold Chrome Heart

**Intermezzo: Moonlight Minuet  
**_She walks quickly, soundlessly, the movement of her feet barely causing a rustle. The moon lights the path inharmoniously, throwing shadows places it shouldn't have, as if it were shying away from Ororo herself, refusing to bear witness to such an affair. The stimulating scent of impending rain settles in the air as she pulls her cloak closer to her body, hurrying along the worn path. She likes the anonymity the cloak offers her. It is a physical reminder that she is playing a game she _cannot _win._

**Movement II: Cold Chrome Heart**

Ororo retreated to her room, silently grateful she'd managed to avoid that confrontation. It'd taken every bit of her strength not to falter under his accusation. She'd nearly fumbled when he spoke his first words. She had gripped her shears just a little tighter, praying to the gods that she didn't end up a blubbering, trembling mess. She'd held it together, though, had found power from _somewhere_ not to break down.

She combed her hand through her hair, long mussed from the impromptu tryst in the greenhouse. Her skin still tingled from Logan's touch. She could still feel his lips against hers, soft and affectionate. Pulling her rumpled shirt over her head, she threw it to the floor where it landed with a soft thud, as a tight ball of guilt gritted in her stomach. She'd known in her soul what he wanted when he entered the greenhouse.

She wasn't oblivious, though she sometimes wished she were. It would make things marginally easier. For weeks, she'd avoided the questioning looks coupled with his annoyed confusion. She'd known it would only be a matter of time before he confronted her. Honestly, she hadn't expected him to wait so long. Every day, she prepared herself as best she could for that moment. And every day, the moment passed her by until she'd stop expecting it at all.

Her gut told her to tell him everything from beginning to end, to hold nothing back from him. He would be angry with her, he would probably leave her, but at least, she'd be free of her shame. It was better that he heard it from her, anyway, instead of stumbling on the truth blindly. It wouldn't do much to soothe the pain she'd caused, but she knew he'd appreciate it coming straight from her rather than through some secondhand discovery.

These thoughts ran through her head during the moments she'd stolen by being purposely silent. She'd made up her mind to be honest with him because he deserved that from her—if nothing else. When she finally faced him in the greenhouse, though, her nerve failed or perhaps she was being defiant. Sometimes, she could never tell.

She reached behind herself and unclasped her bra, freeing her breasts from their constrained confines. It didn't take much work. She'd only half-fastened it—missing one of the two metal hooks in her desperate hurry to dress. She'd only wanted to find solace after being with him, needing time alone with her thoughts. She muddled his brain and her own in the process of trying to avoid the question. She hadn't meant to be so deceptive, and she hadn't meant to use sex as her weapon of choice.

Even though she knew she _had_ to tell him, she was unable to form the words she needed to say. Every time she tried to mentally push herself to admit that she'd had an affair, she'd come back with something snappish and accusing, petulant replies that dripped like acid. When she did these things, she felt like an outsider in her own body, as if she really had no control over her own actions. She couldn't quiet the scathing comments or the cool glares. Defiance poured out in heavy torrents every time she opened her mouth.

It hurt to see him hurting, and before it was all over, she'd hurt him a million times over. And how many times during this "affair" had she told herself that life without Logan wasn't really a life at all? Apparently not enough or maybe she didn't truly believe. She'd lie in her bed and try to imagine how things would change without him being there at all. There would be no love, no friendship, no anything. She sealed the deal on that when she made the conscious decision to be with another man.

Could she really stand the thought of him closing her out, leaving her nothing but the cold memories of how things used to be? Could she really bear the thought of him never smiling at her again, never touching her again? She'd tell herself no, but still, she played a dangerous game without humanity or law. Where was her guilt, her remorse, when she needed it the most to keep her in check?

This was not the way she should behave. She shouldn't be capable of such deceptions. Ororo Munroe was many things, but she never thought she'd see the day when she could add "cheating girlfriend" to her repertoire.

She slid off her shorts, padding to the bathroom, remembering how she'd been unable to locate her underwear in the greenhouse. She made some lame joke about a "thong tree" sprouting next spring while chuckling halfheartedly. She'd only said it because of the looming heaviness over them. The sex had only complicated things more, and she had dressed and retreated as quickly as she could but not before he could get the very last word in.

"How could ya?" was all he said. She pretended not to hear at all because she didn't know what to tell him, not that anything she could say would be worth a damn.

She paused in front of the sink, avoiding the mirror. Most days, she didn't like what she saw; she didn't know the woman in the mirror, any more. She grabbed a hair scrunchie, piling thick locks on top of her head in a messy ponytail. When she stepped into the shower, she turned the water on, pressing her back to the cool tile as she let the water wash over her.

Certain things were expected of her, and while she slowly—and at certain points in her life drastically—chiseled her true self out of marble, she knew that it would still be a long time before her friends really accepted that she was _mortal_. They knew she wasn't perfect, that she'd made some unsound decisions, but they only associated this mortality with Storm the X-Woman, not Ororo Munroe the woman.

Storm was allowed her mistakes on the field, but Ororo had to be infallible. They separated the mutant from the woman. When in reality, both sides were necessary to complete a "whole." Without Storm, there was no Ororo. Without Ororo, there was no Storm. Storm, sometimes, did things recklessly in the heat of a battle. This was understandable. But when Ororo—the woman—did things in her personal life that were equally as reckless or unexpected, tongues started flapping, unnecessary concern was shown for her "erratic behavior."

Others were allowed their pain, their happiness, their mistakes, but sometimes, she believed they didn't expect her to feel. They didn't expect her to _live_. She wasn't supposed to taste the wild fruit that life had to offer. Her role was merely to exist and fight the good fight. She didn't _just_ want to exist, though. She wanted to live her life passionately. Sometimes, she wanted to disregard the rules, as well.

For years, she lived her life on a pedestal before the X-Men and, again, with the X-Men. She knew that was partly her fault for allowing it, for buying into her own stock that she transcended typical human behavior. "Self" rebelled against the goddess feint, though, and slowly, it was gaining more control. "Self" would not be denied. "Self" felt like an animal in a cage as if she was being conditioned to be nothing less than ideal. "Self" told her they boxed her in and took her name—that she was fighting for a one-dimensional, rose-colored dream. "Self" said she was everything and nothing to them—the nurturer and the destroyer.

"Goddess, maybe I should take it easy on the Dr. Phil," she said aloud to herself, trying to push away the brittle feelings that roiled inside of her, as she soaped up her body.

She was going to psychobabble her way into a depression if she kept this up. Besides, these were her family and friends. They hadn't forced this role on her; she'd taken it on herself and expected them to follow it. They hadn't given her anything she hadn't asked—that she hadn't _demanded_—from them. However, whatever she demanded of them, whatever she purported herself to be, it didn't take away from the fact that she _was not_ depthless.

Logan was one of the few people who'd always seen through the act, his keen intuition pierced her cold, chrome heart. At first, she didn't like how he challenged her at every turn, how he made her question herself and her own motives. It took her a while to realize that he wasn't trying to be malicious; he was just trying to get her to be honest with herself. She wasn't an impenetrable, enduring deity, and she shouldn't live life as if she were.

She was flesh, and blood, and bone. Inside her beat a heart that was capable of rendering true human emotion and not the dry impression of emotion she'd always expressed during that time. And he'd always seen that, and with time, she learned to appreciate that, even if she had given him _some_ resistance because she thought he was intrusive. Over the years, he'd been a good friend, and before they'd started dating, she had wondered from time to time what being with him would be like.

Then, it happened, and it _was_ all fireworks and teary love ballads. Well, it was to her, anyway—theatrics and all. She remembered the first day they stopped being Ororo and Logan and become RoLo. ("They're not even Ororo and Logan, anymore. They're something different now, a new breed of species—a RoLo. And they're driving me _crazy_…" she remembered Alex saying not too long after they'd become a couple.) She smiled so hard that day that she was sure she would be stuck with a permanent jester's grin.

It happened on a Sunday, two years before. After years of subtle flirting between friends and kisses shared at the unlikeliest of times, they finally stopped pretending that they were content with the way their relationship functioned; they stopped pretending that they weren't curious about what could possibly grow from a relationship like theirs. However, it wasn't something they planned. It was just something that happened.

It was during one of their rare vacations—nothing special, just a weekend retreat to a private ranch nestled in the mountains. The last day there, she'd gone to the horses' corral alone. She had watched the others ride these majestic, beautiful creatures all weekend, but she kept her distance, feigning indifference when she was really just afraid. She wouldn't even touch one.

She'd never know what possessed her to go to the corral. Perhaps, it was the lingering effects of the amaretto laced coffee she'd had earlier in the morning. She never did find out who spiked her coffee. She had her suspicions, though. So, while the others were off doing their thing, she was well on her way to being trampled by a rather angry mare. She didn't know what she'd done to upset her, but the horse snorted at her in warning before rearing on hind legs.

She backed away from the horse, believing she'd never conquer that fear (and with logical reason, if you asked her). "Yer makin' her skittish. She can sense yer fear," she'd heard him say behind her. She turned to look at him, wondering how long he'd been standing there watching her make a fool of herself. He walked closer to the horse, grabbing her reins despite her aggression, petting her for reassurance. "It's okay, girl."

And just like that, she was okay again. The animal was so at ease with him when most people thought he was too brutish, too intense. While he saddled the horse, her mind was already wandering to what she'd do now. She'd been so deep in thought she hadn't heard him the first time he asked her if she wanted to ride. He repeated his question and she made some weak excuse about not being dressed for riding.

Well, she hadn't been, not wearing the long, airy skirt that was made for a day lounging around rather than riding a horse. But what she was really thinking was if he was blind or just crazy because the horse didn't like her. Her decline resulted in fifteen minutes of childish banter back and forth—"yer scared" and "I _am not_" compromising most of the conversation. In the end, she relented.

And she never shared with anyone what happened on that excursion, but she was convinced that someone should compose a sonnet about skirts that had to be hiked up to your thighs when riding a horse. She always smiled thinking about it. It was her most treasured memory.

She'd been in a few relationships through the years; relationships that she believed were meaningful, but they only paled in comparison to what she had with Logan. She understood the concept of "love" before Logan, but she'd shaped it in her mind to be something of epic and nascent proportions. She'd set herself up for failure in the past believing that love was the glue that would keep everything from crumbling.

Love was a commanding force, but love wasn't the end-all of a relationship. Love was only the captain controlling a host of factors. There had to be sacrifice, dedication, compromise, and a whole crew of other dynamics. Love only made it all worthwhile, reminding you that you'd do anything, _anything at all_, for this person. Most of all, though, love—_real love_—didn't make you feel like you were giving all of yourself for nothing, like you were putting too much in and getting too little in return or vice versa.

For all his gruffness, Logan was different as a lover, far more considerate and gentle than she would've given him credit for before they got together. She could tell him whatever was on her mind. Sometimes, they didn't have to talk at all. It was as if they just knew what the other needed or felt or thought. She waited her whole life for someone like Logan, someone she felt she could love unconditionally, someone who didn't make her feel like she wasn't putting her all into the relationship, and now, she was about to throw it all away from some _other_.

She only thought of him as "the other" because she was too afraid to think of him by name, fearing that her body would betray her feelings. Thinking of him as just a nameless face made it easier to pretend that he wasn't real, that the things that happened between them was just some chimera she borrowed from some romance novel. She only allowed herself to think about him when she was alone or when she was with him.

She couldn't justify what she was doing because there was no rationalization for it. It was easy to tell herself that she should end the relationship with "the other," be honest with Logan, and swallow her medicine humbly… except… she wasn't quite sure if that's what she wanted. Her heart wanted one thing and her body wanted another. The only time the two could agree was when she was dizzy out of her head from the clutch of an unrestrained orgasm. Everyone knew you couldn't listen to the inane things you thought or said while coming. People would sign over their soul in the throes of passion.

He made her feel… _unusual_. That's the best way she could describe it without being completely flowery or completely dirty about it. He made her use some base-level instinct when it came to him, less thinking and more feeling, less talk and more… She didn't want to think about that, but she couldn't help herself. She even found him slipping into her thoughts when she didn't want to, moving uninvited into a space in her mind when she needed to focus on more important things than the way her touched her… or the way he talked to her. Goddess, she loved the way he talked to her.

He'd speak in her ear hotly, _sotto voce_, saying things that used to make her flush from the overt sexuality of it all, hard words clashing with his soft, even tone. Men, even the ones she'd been intimate with, usually treated her like china glass. She couldn't imagine any of them saying half the things he'd said to her, and when she first expressed disapproval, faintly sickened that it aroused her more than she cared to admit, he'd go into explicit detail about the things he was going to do to her, things so nasty that she got off just by listening to him, winding his words around her so tightly that she believed he'd only have to touch her shoulder and the rain would fall.

And he always wanted to hear her repeat the things he said he'd do to her, saying she had to renounce her godship and start using the whole _fucking_ language. Goddess help her if she tried to give him the maidenly version of what he'd said, cleaning up the language, leaving it with _none_ of the vulgarity. He wasn't beyond meting out "punishment" for her defiance—mostly cruel, endless teasing that never caused her serious harm but she still much rather avoid it.

Besides, she liked the wolfish gleam in his eye that threatened to overwhelm her with its want while she spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable carefully, dragging it along like a slow Sunday drive. Things she thought she would never utter to another human being slipped from her lips, spoken sins that incited and excited.

Sometimes, she would refuse to repeat what he'd said because that was the thrill of the game—seeing who was truly dominant, but he'd coaxed them from her with well-placed kisses and manipulative fingers that knew no end. "Say it in your squeaky voice," he'd tease, voice brimming with humor, before placing his mouth over hallowed nerves. Oh yeah, she'd say it and in her squeaky voice, too.

She rinsed the soap from her body, allowing herself a few more moments in the shower before she exited. The bathroom was just a blanket of fog in the shape of a man, and she waved her hand to disrupt the image. She entered her bedroom, again, sprawling nude across her bed.

She had no illusions about his, the other's, romantic notions, or his lack thereof. She never wanted his adoration, loathsome promises of undying love and devotion. She didn't want him to tell her that he'd die for her or anything equally as noble. She wanted him just as he was—contemptible, unbridled, and libidinous. He'd done things she'd often stood tall and proud against on her soapbox, but he was sorry for nothing and he regretted even less. And none of that mattered when she was with him.

There were certain things he was able to bring out of her just by looking at her, but it wasn't the sweet, consuming ardor that Logan elicited from her. It was something sordid and thrilling, dark and enticing. She was Eve in the eternal garden and he was the serpent, calling her to taste the forbidden fruit. Except it wasn't as beautiful or poetic as all that. No, what they shared was wicked; something not meant to be immortalized in love songs.

She'd often thought the word "fuck" was a crude way to describe sex between people, but before him, she'd never been "fucked." The men she'd been with before him, including Logan, always made sex a beatific experience, something straight out of a virginal fantasy, nothing less than theistic. There was nothing selfish or unbidden about it, and it didn't matter how kinky or taboo or smutty it got you _never_ misjudged the love radiating from the act itself.

"Fucking"—down and dirty, no questions asked, no explanations needed, no apologies required, rip his clothes off and straddle his hips, make him scream your name "fucking"—was something completely different. It was opportunistic, selfish, and depraved—from the way he undressed her as if they had all the time in the world to the way she brushed her lips against his chest. From beginning to end, there was nothing personal to be gained. It was all about fulfilling fleshly hunger, gratuitous and deprived of heartfelt emotion.

"I want to be a wreck for you," she'd whispered in his ear during their most heated moments of passion—that fevered instance when her eyes would milk over for a split second as the divine feeling that made her believe she swayed between life and death overtook her. In those moments, she truly believed that she wanted to devour his sins.

Afterwards, while she was alone, guilt would consume as she tried to scrub the shame away from her skin until every inch of her ached. And she always came back only to repeat the cycle again and again, disregarding the throbbing hollow in her heart that tried to open her eyes to reason. These impetuous thoughts, words, and actions coming from a woman who _claimed_ to only love Logan.

Why was she cheating on the man she said completed her body and soul? How could she honestly look him in the eye and say "I love you" when she was playing the kind of game that no woman should play? This is when she truly loathed herself and questioned her so-called sound mind. She played the devil's game at the expense of losing everything that was important to her—a fact that slapped her in the face when Logan had asked her if she was "fucking around."

She couldn't continue to do this to him or herself. It wasn't fair to him, and it was all wrong for her. She couldn't predict what this would do to her relationship with Logan, but she would be free of her burden, her indignity. And no matter what happened to Logan and her beyond that point, she could come to terms with herself, get her life back in order.

———

**Author's Note:** Inspired by another of my psych30 challenge prompts—"Skinner Box," which is a cage used for animals that are being experimented on. The creator of the box, B.F. Skinner, believed that if you controlled a child's environment you could shape them to be whatever you wanted them to be. I took a lot of liberties with this particular prompt. I thought about giving a detailed explanation of my take on it, but I won't bore you with that. Additional author's notes on my forum (because this one got rather long).


	3. This Thing Called Trust

**Intermezzo:**  
_She doesn't like the subtle jabs she takes to her conscience every time he smiles at her. Half of her revels in it, half of her despises him and herself, and all of her never knows how she should react. So, she acts indifferent. She reminds herself that they weren't in love; they weren't even pretending to be in love. She couldn't let feelings become a factor. Sometimes, she wishes he would make demands that were too complicated for her to fulfill. Sometimes, she wishes he would give her a reason to end it all. She knows he won't, though. Their encounters have never been about things such as feelings and emotions. The only thing they share with each other _is _passion._

**Movement III: This Thing Called Trust**

They were at a stalemate, neither retreating nor advancing. Days had passed since they had a decent conversation. Any words they exchanged were limited to civil chitchat—most of which contained three words or less. _Enjoying the weather? Sure am. Me too._ It was the kind of bullshit that never got them anywhere and always ended with them awkwardly gravitating away from each other. _Well, gotta go. Important stuff. Yeah, me too._ It was pathetic.

Sometimes, he'd come to her room at night, standing outside the door, listening to the sound of her tears. He was prepared to tell her that none of it mattered. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her they could move beyond this. Their bond was stronger than a deception. He was just fooling himself, though. Part of him wanted to believe that things could go back to the way they used to be, but the odds were slim that would happen. There would always be trust issues. Every time she so much as took a walk, he knew what he would think in his heart. What kind of relationship was that if he had to constantly second guess her as well as himself?

He didn't want to be part of a relationship where every thought was riddled with images of her and some faceless man together. He didn't want to feel like she was silently laughing at him behind his back. He didn't want to know if she was thinking about this other man while they were together. At the same time, he knew he would miss waking up with her curled in his arms, her promises that she would never abandon him, the laughter they shared, the tears they'd cried privately together.

He crept into her room while she was off playing referee for another one of Bobby and Alex's verbal sparring matches, telling himself that he would wait for her. They needed to get this straightened out now. But he found himself face to face with her open journal, and temptation was a sonuvabitch. He tried to prod himself go back out the door and maybe watch on half-amused while Alex and Bobby got all up in one another's face.

This one promised to get physical, someone said. It always "promised" to be the fight of the century. He knew better, and unless they were shedding blood this time, he'd rather watch the grass grow or the clouds float by or whatever. He'd seen Bobby and Alex fight before. It was the equivalent of watching two grade school girls pull each other's hair. Nope, he wouldn't waste his fucking time on that one.

Besides, the prospect of accidentally reading her journal was much more important. He wasn't snooping, not really. It wasn't like he'd gone in her drawer and gotten it out. It was right there on her bed, opened for the whole world to see. That made it public domain. If she was that worried about it, she should've taken care to put it away. Who was he kidding? He was snooping and he didn't have one regret about it.

She used to give him access to her most private thoughts, even her journal. There wasn't much she'd written about him that she hadn't told him aloud, and the things she hadn't said, he already knew, from one heart to another.

He'd lie across her bed, his eyes chasing her flowery script across the faux antiquated page. He smiled thinking about one of her entries concerning her _very strong_—why didn't she just use the word _hate?_—dislike of Emma Frost. It was the same night he'd let her sweet talk him into letting her try out her new nail polish on his toes. ("Geez, 'Ro, ya never told me ya were so full o' teenage rage," he'd joked, which she countered by threatening to tell everyone he'd let her paint his toes alternating colors of "Vixen" and "Berry Persistent.")

Now, it was just like that first day when he'd thought she was an uppity bitch and she'd thought he was a complete animal. She didn't say anything personal to him, anymore, clamming up completely whenever they were in the same room alone for more than ten minutes.

He wasn't interested in the other person. He was only interested in the things concerning them. He wanted to understand where it all went wrong. And, okay, maybe he was more than slightly interested in who the other person was, but he convinced himself that that was really secondary. He leaned on the bed, turning back the pages, taking in as much as he could, trying to spot the vital parts by picking out the "important" words.

She was smart. She never mentioned the other man by name, but he could feel his disgust, his anger, growing with some of the entries he'd read. Some of them revealed how close he'd really been to the other man—literally close enough to rip his balls off. Still, she was careful in her writing. She was descriptive, detailing every forbidden detail down to the last sigh, but that was only with the action. She never gave anything away that might spark an "aha!" moment. Maybe this was intentional on her part. Maybe she knew he would eventually read it, and this was the only way she felt she could confess.

Her latest entry detailed a recent night out a group of them had taken—just for a little R&R. They'd gone to some high-priced restaurant where they gave you one shrimp on a cracker and some dribble that looked like diarrhea and charged you $200 bucks for it. Of course, that hadn't been his idea. But he'd gone along with it because she wanted to go, glad to do it for her, actually, but he had to hem and haw about it for appearances sake.

And he remembered her going to the restroom before the meal, and he remembered thinking she'd gotten lost after about ten minutes. He remembered how flustered she was when she came back to the table. He remembered she smelled like raw desire, and she would never meet his eyes during dinner. Yeah, it stuck out in his mind because even then he already had his suspicions, but he didn't dwell on it.

He heard her footsteps, as she neared the room, but he couldn't resist reading just one more line. _Why did you let your eyes rest on me _like that_, and smile at me with _that _smile, and speak to me in _that _voice? Now, nothing can ever be the same again, _she'd scrawled, the writing wobbling slightly, a tear smearing one of the words. Anger gripped him tightly, pushing insane thoughts through his head.

He stood up straight again, making sure everything was in place before taking a few steps away from the bed. How suspect was he going to look standing in her bedroom for no particular reason at all? He tried to look at it different. He'd surprised her many times by being in her bedroom when she was least expecting, but they hadn't been fighting then.

The door swung open, and she stopped short when she saw him, bringing a hand to her chest. "What are you doing?" she asked accusingly, her eyes sliding to the journal on the bed.

"Nothin'," he'd said like a scolded dog, trying to use what little shred of control he had left to keep from demanding to know exactly whose eyes rested on her _like that_, and who smiled at her with _that_ smile, and who spoke to her in _that_ voice.

One look told him that she didn't believe him, but she didn't accuse him of anything, as she walked toward the bed. Putting her pen between the spine to serve as a bookmark, she closed the journal, cradling it in her hands like a long lost child. She walked toward her dresser and put it in the top drawer, closing it softly behind her. He thought if she'd had the nerve to slam the drawer, he might've snapped. In fact, he'd hoped that she would slam the drawer, but she knew how to pick and choose her battles.

She took an audible breath before turning to face him. "You read it. Am I right?" she asked him. He didn't know why she would ask him that, but she continued to wait on eternally for his answer.

"Yeah," he finally said. He'd never been good at lying. "Didn't get ta read much, though."

"But you read what mattered," she said, pushing herself against the wall next to the dresser as if that would keep her safe from him if things got out of control.

He nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah."

She pushed off the wall, walking toward him, seduction causing a slight sway in her hips. He steeled himself against her, wondering when she'd learn to be so goddamn deceiving. There would not be a repeat of the other day. "Logan—"

"I trusted ya, y'know." He snapped at her angrily. She paused in her tracks, eye guarded, brows furrowing together.

"I know you did, and I have beaten myself up over this thing a million times over." The lines in her face deepened as she frowned and looked _almost_ sorry.

"That ain't enough. That'll _never_ be enough." She would never understand the pain in his heart at that moment, a pain so excruciating he wished he could die. Did she even fucking care?

"I know. And I know there is nothing I can do to make this right." She rocked on heels a bit as if she was bored, but her face still held that half-sorry look. He didn't know what to make of it.

She seemed awfully damn resigned. She showed enough sorrow for him to wonder if she did care anymore. Maybe the thought of having another man waiting in the wings made her eager to be rid of him. "Are ya still seein' him?"

"_Oh_," she said softly, drawing it out longer than necessary, caught off-guard by the question. The word seemed to propel him forward until he was standing only steps away from her. She shrank back from him a bit.

"Oh?" That was never a good response when it came from her. "_Oh_ ain't a acceptable response, Ro." She was tearing him apart.

"I am _so_ sorry," she whispered.

"Sorry?" He grabbed her arms suddenly, too roughly. He shook her once and she let out a slight shocked sign, turning her electric blue eyes back to his eyes; the first inklings of real terror crowning them. "That's all ya got ta say is _yer_ _sorry_?" he said, shaking her again.

"Yes, I _am_ sorry." Her voice was thick with tears that threatened to erupt at any moment, but her answer was defiant.

"What the hell is that s'pose ta mean?" He was shaking her too hard, and she was crying. Words were coming out of her mouth, but none of it made sense, not to him, anyway. The room darkened quickly, as the nice, summer afternoon turned into a dreadful mess.

And someone was knocking on the door frantically, irritating Logan to the very depths of his soul. "Ororo, are you okay?" he heard Scott call through the door in typical asswipe commander-in-chief mode. This was none of his business.

"Go away!" Logan bellowed, silently daring the man to even try to come through that door, no longer shaking her. His anger had a new focus for the time being.

"Please, Scott. We are fine." She was still looking at him, eyes watering, but she controlled her voice. There wasn't a trace of quaver in it.

"Are you sure?" Scott asked worriedly. "I'm coming in."

_Oh, you do that_, Logan thought to himself.

"No! We are okay. I will be down in a moment," she said, trying to add some cheerfulness in her voice—failing miserably.

Scott finally relented. Logan waited to hear his retreating steps before speaking again. "What's wrong wit' me? Why would ya go an' do somethin' like that?"

"There is nothing wrong with you, my love. I am afraid there is something wrong with me." She pulled her arms away from his angry hands, rubbing the livid fingerprints blazed on her skin.

"Do ya love him?" he asked softly—more softly that he was used to speaking.

"No, I do not," she said, swallowing hard.

"Then, why?" he volleyed.

She sat down in the middle of the floor, Indian-style, resting both elbows on her knees. She was good at biding time. "There is no simple reason why. I wish there was. I guess the simplest answer would be that it just happened." She looked up at him, her face painted the darkest color of guilt.

"It just happened? What d'ya mean, like ya both walked into a bar an' decided, 'Hey, let's fuck for the helluva it. It'll be fun.'" He said with a snort, clenching his fists tightly at his side.

"It was not like that," she said in a low, conspiratorial voice. She closed her lines, putting her fingers to her temple and massaging lightly.

"Then, what was it like?" he snapped, causing her to jump slightly. She jerked her eyes back toward him. She looked far younger than she really was at that moment, reminding him of a scared teenage girl in a horror flick.

"I… do not know." She was being honest. He could see it in her face, smell it in her scent.

"Ya do love him, don't ya?" he said, shaking his head, a sharp pain stabbing him right in the heart.

"No, I only love you," she insisted on the verge of tears again. Outside, the sudden downpour continued to battle, wielding an impressive heavenly artillery.

"Don't give me that bullshit. That kinda stuff only works in movies, an' darlin', this ain't no movie." That kind of stuff never worked in practice.

"But I do love you, Logan." Her words fell on unforgiving ears.

"That ain't the truth. Yer just shittin' yerself. If ya loved me, ya woulda never fucked another man. Tell me who it is," he said, sitting in front of her.

"No, it would only cause more problems. I take full responsibility for my actions—both his and mine."

"Is it somebody in the mansion, 'Ro?"

"No," she said quickly followed with the sharp scent of dishonesty that tickled his nose, clinging to his nose like static.

"Yer lyin'." He chuckled darkly. She hadn't been outright dishonest with him until that point. It wasn't enough that she was cheating on him. _No_, she had to cheat with someone that he had to look at every single day. BAM! One heavy fist hit the floor in fury. "Ya mean ta tell me that one o' those assholes is gettin' off wit' my woman, and yer gonna just continue ta let me play the fool."

"No, that is not what I am doing, Logan. If you have to be angry with someone, be angry with me." She beat the flat of her palm against her chest. "Take your anger out on me if it makes you feel better. I am the one who deserves it. I will accept whatever retribution you wish to exact."

"Ya mean ta tell me that yer willin' ta protect—" His words caught in throat as the bitter sting of betrayal punched him hard in the throat. Anguish made his jaw set firmly, eyes widening at the admission. If he didn't leave, he was going to kill her, or she was going to have to use every ounce of power she had in her to kill him.

She stood and walked to the dresser again, taking the journal from its confines again. She walked back toward him, her face impassive. "Here," she handed him the journal, "read it. Read every page of it."

Wasn't that about some cocky shit? It was like she wanted to flaunt her affair in his face. He should've shredded it to bits right in front of her face and go looking for the first guilty looking asshole in the mansion. "What makes ya think I wanna read about ya an' some other guy?" he asked, barely able to breathe through his anger.

"You said you wanted to understand. Every thought I have ever had about our relationship and about him is all right there. It will not make up for what I have done. It might not make much sense to you, but it _is_ all there."

He let his eyes roam over her face. She looked sorry, genuinely sorry, but he still flinched away from her touch when she reached out to him.

"I can't do this anymore." That's what she wanted to hear him say, right? She wanted him to be the first to say "uncle." She sighed deeply, walking away, locking herself away in the adjoining bathroom where he heard the shrill cry of glass breaking.

He turned the journal over and over in his hands, wondering if he really wanted to know now that it was all said and done. People said that hate is such a strong emotion. What about love? Wasn't it just as strong? Wasn't it just as passionate as hate? He wanted to hate her, but he couldn't. He wanted to rip her heart out, so she'd know an iota of how he felt.

———

**Author's Notes:** All author's notes related to this chapter can be found on my forum due to their rambling nature. Thanks for reading and for all the reviews. :) One more chapter coming (hopefully) soon-ish.


	4. When the Levee Breaks

**Intermezzo: And All That Can Never Be  
** _Sometimes, he holds her, and they pretend that this is how things are always supposed to be. They know it isn't quite right; that their relationship isn't one destined in the stars. She doesn't mind; neither does he. Their relationship is nothing more than the friction of hips and uttered lies in the highest moments of passion. She can never belong to him, nor he to her. She's content to take whatever he's giving, and she knows he feels the same._

**Movement IV: When the Levee Breaks**

"_If it keeps on rainin', levee's going to break."_

It was too early in the morning for Zeppelin, he argued in his sleep. He wanted to die in that bed, cease to exist in that bed—preferably without the help of Led Zeppelin. He could manage self-depression fine on his own, thanks.

"Open your eyes." Her voice lured him from his troubled sleep.

When he opened his eyes, warm blues greeted him. She lay close, too close, her bare skin warming his. Pressing into him, she made it impossible for him to navigate his muddled thoughts. The scent of her arousal was aggressive, overtaking rationality. Her sweet mouth explored his chest, her teeth nipping at his nipples. She was eager and playful, pretending as if nothing had happened.

And he was the victim being reduced to a willing participant in this evil game of seduction. If he didn't fight her, she would trap him in her web. "What're ya doin'?" he asked her angrily.

"_You_, of course." She laughed her throaty laugh, as if this were all a fun joke, throwing her head back, exposing the delicious curve of her neck. He buried his face there; the scent of wild Watsonia kissed his nose. Logan wondered if she'd shared this secret with her other lover, too.

"_Mean ol' levee taught me how to weep and moan."_

He offered little resistance when she took his hand, guiding his fingers toward a raring nipple. She arched into his touch, and he wondered, again, if she did this with her other lover. "This ain't right," he pulled away from her.

"Of course it is," she purred, hooking her leg around his waist, denying him escape. The heat emanating from her was all-consuming, powerful. She was his phoenix, his death and rebirth.

She nudged him to his back, draping herself over him. Looking down at him, her hair spilling over her shoulders, a nimbus shrouding the goddess from the mortals, she leaned into him, whispering her fantasies into his ear—fantasies that she'd probably whispered a thousand times to the other. He pushed her off him, turning away from her, sitting on the edge of his bed.

"What about him?" he asked without looking at her. "What about the other guy yer fuckin'?"

One arm slithered across his chest, her mouth finding the alcove between his neck and jaw. "There is no one else. You are the sole reason that I breathe." Bittersweet lies filled his ears like poison.

"_When the levee breaks, I'll have no place to stay..."_

Logan woke from his dream unable to breathed; the pillow he'd nuzzled in his sleep, the one that smelled like her, lay tattered to shreds. Alone again with blood blinding his eyes, he tossed the journal at his bedside against the wall. She did this to him. Why couldn't she have kept her promises? Why couldn't he have been the only one?

He had to get the fuck away from her before he killed her, before he killed _them_.

———

Ororo knocked on the opened door and walked into the room with a nervous smile. She was wearing his favorite dress, a simple, low-cut, apricot-colored dress that molded to her body like an artist's stroke. The dress flowed and swayed with every move she made, inviting him to rub his hands over her curves to share the artist's vision. Her fresh, clean scent followed her into the room.

"We have to talk," she said. The corner of her lips tugged downward, completing a grim expression.

"Sit," he said, signaling for her to come closer, expecting diplomatic discussion. But this was no friendly visit. Had he done something to upset her? He tried to rack his brain for something he might've done, but he came up empty. "Did I do something?"

She shook her head. "No, I just need to speak with you, but I have things to do. _Later_, okay?" _Same time, same place_—her eyes said, but there was nothing overt about the caged look she gave him. So, it _was_ about them.

"Is something the matter?" he pressed, standing from his seat on the couch. She floundered a bit, pulling awkwardly at the strap of her dress. Something he didn't see her do that often. He moved closer to her.

"We will speak after I take care of…" She stopped, watching him carefully. Then, as if reading his intent, she attempted to cut him off at the door. He closed the door before she could escape. She walked around him, putting a wide berth between them. "What are you doing?"

"Closing the door," he said with an innocuous shrug.

"You know what I meant." She backed away from him, panic leveling the room between them, and he moved closer to her.

It was a slow descent, at first, the momentum increasing with every passing second as she backed herself against the wall. He didn't touch her; he placed his hands on the wall on either side of her, leaving nothing but the brush of clothes between them. Imploringly, he delved in for a kiss, but she turned her head and placed one hand securely over his mouth.

"Are you crazy?" she asked him. Blue eyes looked at him fearfully. Temptation made him caress the curves of her neck. Placing his free hand over her hand, he pulled her hand from his mouth, letting his lips brush the tip of her fingers.

"Just one kiss." She relented and moved in a bit closer, soft lips tempting. He moved back slightly as she continued to strain forward—just a bit. _Come to me_, he goaded her wordlessly. Then, she placed her hand back over his mouth, trying to push him away from her, but he refused her.

"Someone might catch us," she whispered between futile shoves. They rarely made contact—well, anything that could be considered more than friendly—when there was chance that one of the others might find them in a compromising position.

"Just one, I promise." Their heads tilted at just the right ungainly angle to clash and make a kiss work. All they had to do was lean into it.

"You do not know how to keep your promises. I have heard that before, remember? If I let you kiss me, it will _never_ stop there," she said with a smirk, slapping his hands when he tried to run a finger over her exposed collarbone. She had better discipline of her self-control, and she never let him forget it. "Look, we'll talk later," she repeated, kissing him on the cheek. Then, she slipped under his arms and was gone.

———

The journal lay on the bed when Ororo returned to her room—almost like she'd left it there before leaving the room. She walked toward it cautiously, as if expecting him to jump from the shadows somewhere, but there was no sign of him. She hadn't expected him to return it. At the very least, she expected to find it ripped to shreds, waiting for her outside her door.

She opened the journal, flipping through the pages, noting the smeared words—tears, though not her own. She wished he'd waited for her, told her exactly what was on his mind—screamed at her, if that's what he wanted. She hated not knowing; she hated being left to her own imagination. How had he reacted when he read the words? Would she ever know? Did she really care to know?

She knew he'd thought the gesture—her giving him the journal—was an arrogant display of her infidelity. She hadn't given it to him to rub it in his face. She'd given it to him because she was unable to voice the things that needed to be said, but her written words would always resound loudly where her own voice faltered. It was her confession, one that he needed to know, even if he didn't understand it. She didn't understand it herself.

She pressed the journal close to her heart. _What have you done?_ A silent voice questioned her. She didn't know how to answer herself, fearing that anything she said would sound false coming from her lips. She warred with herself—should she seek him out or should she let him be. She didn't know how effective her words would be now. She thought that she would attempt to restore what they'd lost. She wouldn't continue to let their relationship fester in lies and deception.

She tired of the cruel games her mind played on her, melding and meshing two men in her thoughts, in her dreams, in her fantasies. She needed to be free of this burden. She was determined to break off the affair. She didn't know what she would do beyond that point.

Perhaps she could throw herself at Logan's feet and beg his forgiveness, if her pride would allow it. She knew she shouldn't give precedence to such things as her pride when it came to Logan. Love should make her humble, willing to do whatever she had to do, but the damage was irreparable. He would never listen to what she had to say. She didn't think she could stand to face him—not now.

Logan held trust in high regards. A relationship that took years to build was destroyed in a matter of days. What had she thrown it all away for? For impromptu trysts in unknown hotels—_for nothing at all_. Her body went into auto-drive, giving way to whims of the flesh. It was hardly an excuse. Even if he did take her back, he didn't deserve the memory of her betrayal to riddle his mind. He didn't deserve the constant worry of wondering if she was being faithful. That's what would happen; she had to be honest with herself.

He would be miserable with her, and she'd rather not have him at all than to destroy him.

———

Ororo often joked the rooms he picked looked like something out of an Arabesque romance novel, a Bedouin warrior's bedroom, a room for a harem. She'd once showed up in low-slung harem pants and gold bracelets that ran up her arm. Barefooted, she danced for him—hips undulating, summoning—and told him to call her Mata Hari, saying that she played both sides.

But now, as she closed the door to the room softly, she was reserved, lacking in passion where there had always been plenty. She barely looked him in the eye, as she walked soundlessly across the floor toward him. Kicking her shoes off—Jimmy Choos, she'd told him once or twice—she straddled his hips while his fingers sought out the hem of her dress.

Sliding his fingers along legs like silk, he cupped her butt, pulling her closer into him. She held his face between her hands, denying him access to haven of her neck. "He knows," she said before releasing his face. She kept an even tone, one that didn't allow him to measure her feelings. Her expression was stagnant, revealing nothing at all. He knew she meant to end it.

For one teasing moment, he started to ask her about this "he" she never named, but he knew that she would never take kindly to that sort of joking. She never did. Her relationship with Logan was sacred. It was never to be mentioned (unless she initiated the conversation), never to be sullied by _whatever_ happened between them underneath the sheets.

"Oh?" he said, placing a kiss on a jutting collarbone, not wanting her to mention "him" again.

He searched her eyes for the appropriate response. He once made the mistake of asking her what was he giving her that the Wolverine wasn't. She slapped him so hard that he carried around an imprint of her hand for days. He thought after that they were finished, but a near-missed kiss in the kitchen and the graze of fingers against his zipper told him otherwise.

"He _always_ knew," she added with a wry smile, her voice was barely a whisper as if "he" were in the room that very instance, "I never could hide anything from him." She sounded apologetic, slightly regretful. Her smile slipped from her face like a memory as her fingers fidgeted with a lock of his hair.

"If he knows, what's stopped him from confronting me?" He didn't want to talk about Logan or what he might or might not know, but he'd known this day was coming. He laid his head against her chest, feeling the hard throb of her heart against his cheek as she cradled his head closer to her.

Limber fingers traced his jaw, making all his senses vibrate with each stroke, but when his hands resumed exploring the depths of her dress, she stopped him. "I asked him not to. I told him whatever justice he wanted would best be settled with me."

He had no reason to doubt that, but he did have reason to doubt that was the sole reason he hadn't already tasted Logan's fist. Logan's anger was almost legendary. He wasn't a thinking man. He let his emotions guide him. "That's not the truth and you know it," he said.

"Maybe you know me too well, too," she said with an empty half-chuckle. "The truth is that I am not quite sure he knows it is you."

That would explain Logan's piercing stares that silently threatened him. He'd almost taken it personally until he saw Logan giving someone else the same glare. He hadn't known how to react, so he hadn't reacted at all. It wasn't exactly unusual for Logan to be surly toward someone just because they were breathing the same air as he was. He hadn't given it much more thought after that.

"Do you think he'll figure it out?" Her heart throbbed harder in response to his question; perhaps they were sharing the same vision—none of it happy. He turned his face, placing his lips right over the spot that throbbed, wanting to breathe that feeling right into himself.

"Yes, I do." He loved her brute honesty. She wasn't the type of lover who'd lie to you to feign a safety net. "He thinks I love you," she continued as if that was the stupidest notion she'd ever heard.

He pulled away from her suddenly, slightly burned from her remark. "Do you?" he asked, suppressing anything that could be interpreted as hopeful.

"It is not fair for you to ask me that," she chided gently.

"Is that right?" he snapped back at her, pushing her from his lap more roughly than he'd intended.

He kicked off his shoes and lay back on the bed, picking up the remote from the nightstand. Flipping on the television, he scanned through the channels until he found the first baseball game. He replaced the remote back on the stand and put his hands behind his head, as if he were home in his own room, _alone_.

She sat on the bed close to him. "Do not be like that." She reached to touch his arm, and he moved it without looking at her.

"I'm not being _like that_." He couldn't come up with a better retort; though one boiled on the tip of his tongue. Impenetrable silence from her made him angry for reasons unknown. "What's wrong with loving me?"

"There is nothing wrong with loving you," she answered. _Then, why don't you love me_, he almost asked. Wrong question. "I love you—"

"But not like you love him."

"We have been friends a long time. I love and respect you, as someone I have come to know as a good friend, but I am afraid that I cannot give you more than that. And…" She trailed, averting her eyes.

"This was never about love," he finished for her. No need for her to think she'd hurt his feelings with the obvious. It was always about what they could wantonly take from one another—no strings. _Always_. From that first time in Vientiane where he let her drag him to a temple, the _Wat Pha Kaew_. "Do you ever wish that night hadn't happened?"

"Maybe," she said. She crawled across the bed toward him, resting in the crook between his legs. She placed her head against his thigh. "Things would be much easier for both of us." The trip had been a mix of business and pleasure. It started as a recon mission that took them deep into the destitute Lao villages. They hadn't found the threat they'd feared; they'd only found each other.

Who would know they hadn't spent all their time deep in the trenches—that the "threat" was barely worth the bother? _Let's enjoy the break_, she'd said in her conspiratorial .voice, the same one she used to use when they helped Bobby play pranks on one of their unsuspecting teammates. That day they'd gone to see the sights, including the temple. At dinner that night, they'd drank too much Lao-Lao whiskey and sang in a language they didn't speak, making merry with the locals, who referred to them as the nice American couple. They hadn't corrected them.

She'd sat in his lap and fed him sweet sticky rice with her fingers. He steadied her wrist, wrapping his lips around her nimble fingers. She laughed at the way his tongue explored her fingers. _That tickles_, she'd said as his tongue curled around her fingers. Her eyes shone with excitement, and he'd caught the enticing sight of her nipples straining against her tank. They'd laughed and pretended it was just fun, even as he held to her waist and positioned her so she rubbed against his erection just right.

And when lips replaced fingers, well, what was a harmless kiss between old friends? His mouthed covered hers, wholly, and he savored the contrasting tastes of bitter and sweet her lips offered. He never meant for it to last more than a few seconds, but her kiss made him feel like a teenage boy who'd slipped his hands past a girl's waistband for the first time.

He remembered how they ran around his room partially clothed, chasing each other, tripping over furniture and shoes. She'd wrapped her bra around his wrists. She was the victor, and he was her captive. "Me, Jane," she'd said, one strong hand pushing him back on the floor. Her fingers roamed his body uninhibited, eyes full of wicked curiosity. Then, she was pulling away from him suddenly.

He remembered her muttered apologies as she unwrapped his wrists, pulling the bra to her chest like a shield. She was still talking—lecturing, really—as she walked around his room trying to locate her clothing. He should've let her go. They could've taken that night to the grave with them, but his mind rationed they'd already taken it too far. He'd grabbed her just as she put on her simple v-neck shirt. "I _am_ going to fuck you," he'd told her, ripping the shirt from her body, seizing her lips with his own.

"Maybe," he repeated, pulling himself away from the memory, watching the way she walked her fingers up and down his thigh.

"Remember this?" she asked, reaching up to tweak his nose between her forefinger and her middle finger.

"Nothing changes." That's what he'd told her that night when he tweaked her nose. _Nothing changes._ After that, he'd teased her about her squeaky voice, mimicking the impossible swell of her voice, garnering a laugh from her. Then, she'd rounded her spine and curled so tightly into herself while she slept that he thought she might disappear.

"You lied," she said. Then, she planted her fingers firmly into his thighs, lifting herself again.

She started her slow trek up his body, her mouth lingering far too long near the zipper of his jeans, hot breath penetrating the thick material. She looked up at him, smiled, and continued upward until they were face to face, mouth to mouth, her lithe body stretched over his. "I didn't mean to," he lied into her mouth.

"Of course you did." She nibbled on his bottom lip, prompting him to part his lips. He ran a tongue over her lips, tasting the last remnants of peppermint, lemon, and amaretto. The amaretto had grown on her. He wondered if she ever figured out that it was him who kept spiking her drinks. He took another deep taste of her mouth, languishing in her spell.

"I'm sorry about what happened between you and Logan," he said feebly, wishing he didn't lose his mind every time her soft hands caressed him.

"More lies." She bit down on his bottom lip hard enough for it to tingle.

"But—" She pressed her fingers to his lips, and he wasn't sure if she was showing the proper amount of sadness. "I thought Logan was your life," he continued despite her protest.

"He is, but there is no need for excuses and regrets now. Nothing you can say or do will change what has happened. I am already destroyed. Just finish me off."

———

**Author's notes:** Borrowed a line from Nicole Blackman's "Metal Eye." Yeah, there will be a story that's the flipside of this called "I Never Promised You a Rose Garden," after a song with the same name. (There's a book out there with the same title. Excellent read—it deals with mental illness.) It may be a while before I get that one out, though. I have to do some thinking on it before I start writing it. I promise there is an "Odalisque" and a "Codename: Storm" update coming in the midst of all this. Next chapter is the last chapter, entitled "Six Underground."


	5. Six Underground

**Movement V: Six Underground  
**_"Take me down, six underground… I'm open to falling from grace."_

She stood on the balcony of the house she shared with her lover, where she'd resided for nearly a year. Paris was the perfect backdrop for such an affair. The city had an air of seduction and romance, one that asked her not to ponder the "whys" but to indulge in the "why nots." It told her to take pleasure in her fleshly decadence. She wasn't the same woman she'd been a year ago, and the world was hers for the taking. Her regrets had no place in Paris. She still wasn't sure if she was thankful for that or not.

Sometimes, she wondered if Logan was happy now, wherever he was. The violent confrontation from a year ago had left her mentally and physically scarred. In her heart, at the time, she'd known that it would only intensify. Logan often acted rashly, and she still questioned what made her think that he would accept this. She decided to let things take its natural course rather than to defer the catastrophe because of her own self-imposed ignorance.

The dark glares, the enraged arguments, that followed were warnings she chose not to heed. She watched him wither; she watched a piece of him die. And she did _nothing_. She'd willingly stood by and watched this horror unfold. Perhaps she could've been more active in changing the events of that night, but she tried to stay faithful to the adage that everything happened for a reason.

He meant to kill her that night; he meant to kill them both—her and her lover. Had he been successful, maybe he would've killed himself, _if_ such a thing were possible. She ran her fingers across the puckered skin on her abdomen—reminder scars—before pulling her robe closed. She didn't like to think about that night. It was such an ugly memory that she tried to keep hidden safely in her mental closet.

She sat in one of the lounges, concentrating on the atmospheric changes taking place around her. Paris was her rebirth, her chance to remodel herself. She purged her old life in favor of this new and unfamiliar world. She looked through different eyes—not those of the nurturer but those of a different type of goddess, one who used her wiles and charms to bring the world to its knees. She was Aphrodite, born of thunder and lightning in lieu of the sea.

And he, her lover, called her out. He challenged her false modesty and her cloying charms. But he liked this change in her, this tainted perfection. She didn't hide who she was or what she wanted now. She didn't ask for much these days, not even fidelity. True love died the day she decided to sleep with a man who wasn't Logan, and if she couldn't have Logan, she wouldn't give her heart to anyone else. She'd bask in her five-second gratification and leave love to the faithful.

She was content with her lover. Whenever the suffocating thoughts of Logan threatened to close around her throat, she'd ward them away by losing herself in thoughts of her current lover—such as now when she had too much time to slip into her thoughts. She tried to concentrate on the non-emotional aspects of her relationship with him. And almost as if she'd conjured him up by just thinking about him, she heard his heavy steps as he walked toward the doors.

She craned backward to watch him when he clomped through the double doors leading to the balcony. Joining her on the chaise lounge, he pulled her into his lap and nuzzled her neck. Rough whiskers scratched her neck, galling her skin. One searching hand was already slipping behind her robe. He rubbed his fingers over the hardened skin of her scars, caressing the tumid flesh gently, as if he could make them go away—a habit he'd taken a liking to.

The band of her panties deflected his hand, causing him to tsk. He didn't like it when she wore panties, said it was too much of a hassle when he wanted to get to the goodies. She _had_ to be easily accessible. No questions asked. He'd strip her down to the barebones, cursing her panties before ripping them away with a harsh tug and throwing them into the gaping mouth of the shadows—never to be seen again. And she knew that now wouldn't be an exception.

"You know how much I hate these things," he growled into her ear. She felt him bunching the thin material.

"You only hate them because they are in the way," she chuckled, pushing his hands away from the material, making him more insistent in his tugging.

"And you only wear them because you _know_ they piss me off. Tell me I'm wrong," he challenge as the sound of fabric stretching beyond its stress point whispered in hers ears.

"I like them. I bought them yesterday." She pulled the robe back to reveal barely-there, racy, red panties made even more obscene by the frilly, baby doll lace bordering them, pushing his hands away from the silky fabric again—a move which earned her another growl. She'd bought them from a specialty store, and she didn't even blink twice when the clerk told her they were called "the virgin-whore." Such a fitting name for a pair of panties.

She didn't like wearing panties, but wearing them for him was part of the fun. "You put too much importance on yourself," she said, trying to sound stern. He only "hmphed" at her. She jumped slightly when she felt the soft snap of fabric against her hips. He let out a triumphant harrumph, lifting her slightly and discarding the panties. She never tired of that.

He wasted no time exploring his plunder. Her nerve endings warmed as she opened to his touch. She closed her eyes and melded into him, enjoying the ride. "But I'm not wrong, am I?" he asked with a husky chuckle.

"No," she finally admitted, as he pressed his lips to her neck. She chuckled against his teasing tongue, spreading her legs just a bit further for him. "You're a tease," she said, surprised she managed an intelligible sentence.

"I learned from the best."

He was in one of his gentler moods, and she already missed her beast.

He was the kind of guy that fucked her in the middle of the day, in the living room, with the windows wide open for all the world to hear—or see, if they were _really_ curious. He'd fuck her to the frenzied, spastic rhythms of his music collection, riding her like a wild beast. "Feel me inside, oh yeah. You can have me any way," Wayne Static would scream throughout the room, matching the agitated flurry of her pleasure, while Trent Reznor assured her like a gentle pat to the head, "I wanna fuck you like an animal." (She preferred Billy Ocean, but Billy Ocean was not considered appropriate mood music for their relationship.) His tongue was smarter than he was, and she had no complaints about that.

Just two days before—on the timeworn balcony, she'd nestled herself into his lap, wrapping spindly legs around his waist, as she lowered herself onto him. She'd draped a light blanket around their shoulders for some small sense of modesty. He'd been in a benevolent mood, giving in to her gentle touches and soft words. Still the lack of humility had excited her, and she'd even glimpsed the shudder of curtains from the neighbor's—Didier Bélisle's—house, pushing her past her brink.

For hours afterward, she'd wondered what _Monsieur_ Bélisle had thought when he'd seen her on the balcony. Had he thought she was beautiful in her passion? Had he taken to his paints and tried to recreate the scene?

Later when she bumped into _Monsieur _Bélisle outside on the walk, his cheeks reddened slightly while he looked at her shyly offering her a bashful "_bonjour_!" His handsome face burned even more when he kissed her quickly on both cheeks. She fiddled with his crooked collar while they made polite chat, noting the way his concentration seemed to break when she touched him. He sputtered a nervous invitation to his art show before retreating to his place. Goddess, she loved Paris.

At night, she took her walks alone. She enjoyed the feeling of complete anonymity. She smiled at strangers and tried delicacies she could hardly pronounce. She drank too much wine and flirted with men she didn't know who promised to take her to places like Belize and Aruba. And she'd tell them her name was Bernadette ("_Je m'appelle_ Bernadette," she'd purr) after her favorite song by The Four Tops and laugh until her stomach hurt because it was all good fun.

There was no need for her seriousness, her constant worrying. She wasn't Storm in Paris. She was just Ororo, a strange woman in a strange land, who dyed her hair an obscene shade of red because she liked it, who laughed too loudly at jokes because she had a voice, who left anonymous love notes on the back of napkins for strangers to find, who skipped topless on the beach, who danced in the garden at midnight like a drunken wood nymph, who kissed in the rain, who sang arias on the balcony at the crack of dawn (as badly as she pleased, thank you), who went down on her man in the theater, who would never be broken again, who told people she would _never_ stop living in the red.

Truthfully, maybe she took these nightly walks just to forget, even though she told herself there was nothing to forget. She'd let _that_ part of her die the night Logan tried to kill her. She could still remember the cool shock of his claws puncturing her flesh when she refused to let Logan get his hands on... the other. It hadn't hurt—at least, it never did in her recollection of the events. It'd been like a butter knife sliding smoothly through something pliable. And part of her had been willing to accept that death, felt that she was deserving of it. The hurt, the anger, she'd seen in his eyes made her believe that that was the best she could hope for.

But her anima, her inner self, wouldn't allow it. Anima. Self, the soul, the true inner self. Selfish in its intent; selfless in its extent. Outwardly, she was willing to take whatever he meted. Inwardly, a fire burned and swore to protect its host. And it was almost like she was watching herself when her fury encompassed her. She saw a cruel, intolerant woman more than willing to strike down the man she loved.

She watched her mouth set in the furious line, the power currents that flowed into her body, forming a tight ball of ferocity ready to attack. She pleaded with herself to think rationally. She didn't want to hurt Logan. She'd already done so much to him. How much more could she do to him? She was a monster, but she was helpless to stop herself. _This town ain't big enough for both of us_… her soul seemed to say.

"Careful what you love," she'd said to him, her voice sounding distant and harsh, white eyes smoking. Violent as fire, her body burned with lightning. It was so intense she'd though her body would dissolve and she would be nothing but pure energy. She'd grabbed his wrist pushing his claws deeper, feeling her fingers sink into his skin, the smell of singed flesh wrapping around them. She glanced down momentarily to see her fingers branding his skin. He was too angry, too focused on his goal, to care.

Her lips blazed against his when she kissed him suddenly. They collapsed, falling into each other tightly, before they were ripped apart—a violent supernova of lightning forcing them apart. She remembered crashing through the air, unable to summon control. And when she landed from the fall, eyes wide, heart beating at a breakneck speed, she barely felt anything. She was dead inside.

Somewhere along the line, while she wondered if she was dead or alive, she picked herself up and fled. Injuries be damned. Logan be damned. X-Men be damned. She was working off endorphins from the sudden rush of power. She wrapped her stomach as best she could, hoping she didn't bleed out. She put herself up in some slipshod hotel room, the owner taking pity on her, even though she had no money.

She treated her own wounds and ate air while pondering what she was going to do. She was in bad shape. She knew she needed help, but she refused to ask for it. The only thing she knew for sure at that point was that she couldn't go back. She could _never _go back. She resorted to the survival tactics that kept her alive on the streets when she was younger, relying on herself to keep herself going.

She worked at the motel for a while to pay her debts to the owner. She hadn't asked for it, but Ororo felt compelled to do it. She'd sit in her little swivel chair at the front desk, spinning 'round and 'round singing "Bernadette" at the top of her lungs. One day while she spun around in her chair in a drunken frenzy, she'd stop spinning abruptly and pick up her pen, singing into it like an old school diva while shimmy-shaking.

"But Bernadette, I want you because I need you to live," she crooned into her pen, eyes shut tight, "but while I live to only hold you, some other men they long to control you, but—"

"How can they control you, Bernadette, sweet Bernadette, when they cannot control themselves, Bernadette…" Her eyes snapped opened at the intrusion. She rarely saw many people in the day wanting to rent a room from that place. Most of the business started in the late hours when everyone was sloshed enough not to care where they did their dirty work. She looked into a familiar pair of eyes. He leaned on his elbow closer to her. "From wanting you, needing you."

The do-gooder in her hadn't died. He was the enemy, someone who couldn't be trusted. _Ever the X-Man_, her inner voice chided. This voice, the voice that had always been her rational mind, had always guided her down the upright path, betrayed her, a testament that she was truly broken. _So revel in your decadence_, the voice added. She couldn't. This wasn't who she was.

There was that still moment when you were sure that a dogfight was about to break out. His lips parted. She readied her attack without thought of protecting others, only of protecting herself, just as she had against Logan. "So, what's your name? And what's a pretty lady like you doing in this shithole?" Smarmy smile, half-flirtatious, half-enticing, 100 insincere. He did realize who she was, didn't he? Of course, he did. Smart aleck.

She sat back in her chair, stymied. Then, she narrowed her eyes. "Bernadette," she forced through her teeth. Then, she mentally dared him to give her one reason to kick his ass.

"You didn't ask my name," he said with that same smile.

"I already know your name. It's trouble." But she'd long decided that she liked trouble. And trouble was what made her move to Paris, and trouble was probably going to get her killed. But, damn, didn't she like trouble, especially when trouble left her purring like a kitten in the wee hours of the morning? Yes m'am, she did. Trouble set her soul on fire, blurring the lines of black and white, made her want to lose the last bit of rationality she had left.

Just like right now when her mind was a stir of emotions and waves of passion asked her to be wanton. And she'd be just that for only these few seconds. She'd be that for a lifetime, if she pleased.

———

Another nightly walk. Same time, same place. She roused from her sleep at his side like clockwork, pulling away from him gently, but he still stirred in his sleep. "Don't go," he muttered, trying to pull her back into his arms.

"I will not be long," she said, loosening herself from his grip and pulling on her clothes.

"You always say that," he said, voice thick with sleep.

"Well, I always come back, do I not?" she said, trying to keep some mirth in her voice.

"One day you won't," he said, turning over.

She reached out to him, stopping short of touching his shoulder. It'd never been a secret that one day they might tire of each other's company, that one day this might be a distant memory. He joked, with her track record, one day he'd wake up and she'd be gone. She had laughed with him about it, went through the motions. She thought he might be right, though. She wasn't sleeping with anyone other than him, but she was restless. She didn't know what she wanted.

For a moment, she considered crawling back into the bed with him, but she needed this more than he knew. She slipped on her shoes and walked out into the cool night. She wasn't much in the mood for her usual haunts. She felt like being alone to her thoughts. Tonight, she just wanted it to be her and the dark. That's when she felt most at ease with herself.

She nearly cried out when someone grabbed her arm, but her eyes widened when she came face to face with her captor. "Goddess, Logan, how did you find me?" she asked. She spoke softly, even though they were only ones on the dark street. Her heart was drumming in her chest. She tried to put a little room between them, but he held firmly to her arm. _Go home_, a voice warned her. _Make him release you and turn tail_. She didn't move, though, didn't say another word.

""Wasn't hard. I tracked ya down at that hotel ya were workin' at. I used ta go by there every day. I thought I might try ta talk ta ya, anyway, despite all that shit that happened. But then ya hooked up with asshole an' moved here, an' I realized it woulda been a waste o' my fuckin' time." He looked haggard, tired, but his eyes were shadowy, dangerous. The moonlight didn't hit them quite right, making them seem opaque.

So, he'd known she was here the whole time. She wasn't surprised, not really. Her throat dried and her instincts continued to warn her that this wasn't good, but she stood firm. "I am not sure—"

"Don'tcha even wanna know how he's doin'?" he cut her off. It was like a slap to the face, and she reeled from the verbal blow. She could take this. She'd taken much worse from him. And she'd endure this too, if this was what he needed.

She winced when his fingers dug into her arm a little harder. She often wondered what would happen if she met up with Logan again. This wasn't exactly how she pictured it. She hoped it would've been on better terms, that they'd have plenty of time to mend. This was too soon, too precarious. She didn't understand his motives for this meeting.

She shook her head quickly, finally pulling her arm away from him. "That is not my life, anymore." She'd work too hard to be faced with this right now. She closed her eyes tightly for a second, hoping he'd only be a ghost of her imagination when she opened her eyes. She'd rather be crazy, talking to the air on the street, than really living this, she told herself.

"Yes, it is. Just cause ya ain't there don't make it stop bein' yer life," he said, letting her know that he really was standing there in front of her. "We got over ya. Naw, that ain't right. We didn't get over ya, but we came ta an understandin'. You fucked us over, an' we could hate each other fer. But what was the point? Two assholes fightin' over a woman who doesn't give a damn. We were still there, workin' side by side trying' ta heal, while ya were off findin' another fuckin' man. God, ain't ya got tired o' doin' this shit, yet?"

"You say it is still my life, but it is not. That life ended the minute you did this"—she pulled her shirt up, showing him the bunched scars on her stomach and she didn't back down when he winced from the memory—"my life with you crashed. You do not know me. Maybe you knew me, then, but I am not the same woman."

"An' yer still lyin' to yerself." He tsked at her, disappointed.

"Why are you here?" she countered.

"Closure, I guess. I wanted ya ta be as miserable as I was," he said. His eyes were angry, very angry, but his voice was calm. "But instead yer here livin' it up."

"I am sorry," she said. She wasn't sure if she was apologizing again for everything that happened or if she was apologizing because she wasn't wasting away from misery like he thought she should be. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was _nothing_.

"Ya can keep yer empty sorry," he snapped at her. His voice echoed through the streets, and she took a step away from him. Then he ran his hands through his hair.

"I have to go home. Will you be here long?" She tried to sound as unruffled as possible when she was anything but. She'd never take another walk alone if the gods saw fit for her to leave this encounter unscathed. Her heart was a deafening roar in her ears. If he planned to be around for a while, she'd find somewhere else to be. But he'd made it perfectly clear he was there to see her. If she wasn't there, what reason would he have to be there?

"I've already been here too long. Ya won't see me again after this." And she believed it. The tone in his voice was absolute.

"It is for the best if we forget," she whispered, taking another step away from him. He was moving toward her faster than she was moving away from him. She was considered turning and running down the street. Goddess, she should've just stayed in the bed, but if it hadn't been tonight, it would've been another night.

"Yeah, forget. Whatever," he parroted.

The heartrending look in her eyes turned her retreat into advancement. She dared to touch him when she was close to him again, cupping his face between. "Do not do this to yourself. I am… Do whatever you have to do to move on. Call me names. Hate me. But do not do this to yourself because of me." Goddess, she hoped he didn't think she was being pompous. If he had to hate her to his dying breath to heal, she wanted him to do it. And she wouldn't play the victim if he did. She knew her place in this tragedy.

He nestled into her touch. "Ya might fall in love with someone today, an' ya might fall in love with someone else t'morrow, but everybody ain't that easy. I'll always love _you_, just _you._"

Then, he drew her in for a firm, tender kiss. She kissed him back tentatively. His hands molded to her waist like they used to. She hadn't even known she missed his touch so much. His touch was personal, familiar, right. Lost love thrummed between them, and she sighed into his lips. She had missed this. She'd given all this away for what? Her breath left her when his fists caught her hard in the stomach, a searing pain ripping through her womb. She tried to say something, anything, but she couldn't breathe, couldn't react, as tears burned her eyes. She closed her eyes slumping into him as the first tears slipped from her eyes.

They say, when you're dying, your life is supposed to flash before your eyes, but that, like everything else, was a fucking lie.

———

_"She knows what she's doing. She's almost done. You think this is tragedy. She thinks this is fun… She sees you scrawl your love in blood on the wall. She bites the bullet, so watch her go off. And watch it explode in her platinum mouth."  
**Metal Eye**, Nicole Blackman_

———

**Author's Notes:** I've had a lot going on for me, lately. Add that to the fact that I've been a little disgruntled with Marvel as of late. This was meant to end in a different way, but a sudden burst of inspiration from a friend pushed me in a different direction. Thank you for all your psychobabble, Nick. :D A lot of loud music (and some not so loud music) inspired this fic, so it is what it is influenced by my moods and music. I know I didn't keep my promise and tell you who the mystery lover was. Verbal beatings will be taken as humbly as possible. I couldn't force myself to do it because I wanted the greater focus to be this broken relationship, and that was another reason I was stalled—trying to force something I wasn't feeling. You all have nice imaginations, though. It's whoever you want it to be. I trust your judgment. Thanks for the nice reviews, input, and sticking with the story, even when I stalled. I don't know if I'm going to continue with the flip-side story, but I'll listen to a little more (loud) music and call you in the morning.


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